


Pixie Powder

by smallhorizons



Series: Tumblr Prompts [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel-centric, Gen, Genderqueer Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, Nail Polish, Pre-Relationship, set at some vague point post-8.23
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel discovers nail polish, and says a giant FUCK YOU to the gender binary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pixie Powder

**Author's Note:**

> Finally cross-posting from tumblr, four months after it was originally posted. I kept telling myself to wait until I finished the second part (because, yes, there is a second chapter!! In which Dean and Cas do the thing where they put their mouths together!!) but that hasn't happened, so I figured if I posted it here then I'd hopefully get the kick in the ass to actually do the work and finish it up.
> 
> Re: pronouns: I do use he/him/his pronouns for Cas in this because, at this point in the show, I feel Cas is most accustomed to those pronouns and pronouns don't have the same gender-marking connotation to him as they do to humans in general, so I feel like he doesn't mind so much.
> 
> Explicit talk of Castiel's gender will be coming up in the second part!
> 
> Come find me at tumblr: I'm osirisjones.

Castiel can’t find his phone.

Ever since he fell, this happens more often than he’d like. He used to be able to track dozens of thoughts at once. Now he finds himself walking into rooms and forgetting what he went there for. He sets his keys down and can’t find them when he goes to pick them up again, five minutes later. It’s not that his memory is bad—his mind retains facts and lists and memories in vivid clarity. It’s just that sometimes he blanks, and then comes to and doesn’t remember what he just said or what he opened the refrigerator for. Or where he put his phone, for instance.

Dean says this is a part of being human. Of everything, it may be Castiel’s least favorite aspect of humanity. It unsettles him, leaves him off-kilter and frustrated.

Cas doesn’t know why his phone would possibly be in the drawers of the rickety motel dresser, but he checks each one anyway. The third one down has a suspicious stain in the back left corner. Cas wrinkles his nose at it and slams the drawer shut.

He had been planning on calling Dean as soon as he settled into the motel room for the night. He’s spent the last week combing through the archives of the New York Public Library, trying in vain to find any new lore that might help them figure out how to close the gates of Hell without sacrificing Sam, and now he’s on his way back home. Dean and Sam had stayed at the Bunker because Sam was laid up with a fever and Dean was worried that it was a lingering after-effect of the trials, despite that they had occurred several months ago at this point. This is the first time Castiel has been out on his own for an extended period of time since he fell, and he’s surprised by how raw he feels, how much he misses Dean. He misses Sam, too, but not in the way that aches in his chest late at night.

Cas shuts the last drawer of the dresser and rakes a hand through his hair, frowning at the television as though it knows where his phone is and refuses to tell him. He already checked his car, a lime green ’56 Ford Thunderbird convertible that he took from the Bunker’s garage only after Dean spent a week fussing over it, making sure it was fit for the road. He checked the bathroom. He checked the bed, stripping off the blankets in the off chance that somehow the phone tucked itself in. He took the cushion off the chair and felt for his phone in the nooks and crannies there.

Cas presses his palms to his closed eyes, heaves in a trembling breath. It’s not a big deal. Humans lose their phones all the time. But he had pictures on there: a picture of the back of Sam and Dean’s heads as Dean drove; pictures of clouds he’d liked the appearance of, flowers he’d found particularly beautiful; pictures of the massive honeybee he’d seen collecting pollen one day, its weight causing each flower it landed on to droop toward the ground; a picture of Kevin slumped over the library table, fast asleep, Dean and Sam pulling faces behind him; pictures of Sam’s delighted face when Dean had driven them to an animal shelter and four puppies had decided to make Sam’s lap their home; a picture of Dean, leaning against the Impala, head tilted back and eyes closed, smiling in the glow of the setting sun.

His eyes feel hot. He hates this.

He takes a shuddering breath and goes to check the closet. Nothing. He backtracks, tries the bedside table to the left of the bed. Nothing. He circumvents the bed and tries the other, pulling the top drawer back with more force than necessary.

Something _clunks_ heavily against the thin wood of the drawers.

“What?” Cas mutters, because he’s a human, and humans talk to themselves, apparently. He reaches in, pulls the ever-present Bible forward, feels around in the shadows behind it. His fingers close around a cool glass cylinder. He pulls it out and opens his fingers and looks down at his palm.

It’s so utterly mundane that Castiel almost huffs a laugh. It’s a half-finished bottle of nail polish, dark purplish-blue. He knows what nail polish is—he’d been fascinated by it for a short while during the time he’d, ah, gone a little off the deep end, as Dean would say. In tiny cursive, the bottle is labeled _Pixie Powder_. Castiel sighs and casts his eyes heavenward. Pixie powder is not even close to this shade of purple. It’s either faint greenish-gold or pinkish silver. Humans, he thinks, with only a little bit of derision.

His phone rings. Castiel almost jumps.

The sound is muffled, like the ringing is being deadened by a thick layer of fabric. Cas drops the bottle of nail polish on the bed and gets down onto his knees, pulls up the blankets he’d haphazardly tossed aside earlier. Cas curses, pushes himself back up, rounds the bed. The sound gets infinitesimally louder.

In a stroke of genius, Cas unzips his duffel bag. There, bright screen glaring up at him, his phone continues to ring, half-buried under the flannel he’d taken off as soon as he’d entered the motel room. _Dean calling_ , the screen tells him. Cas heaves out a relieved breath and rescues his phone, presses it to his ear as he answers with a heartfelt, “ _Dean_.”

“Whoa, hey there,” Dean says, voice warm and crackling on the other end of the line. “You okay?”

“I couldn’t find my phone,” Cas says. “It was very—frustrating.” He does a little half-circle, makes himself look at the mess he’s made. Blankets and pillows are strewn everywhere. He grimaces. Dean’s told him how disgusting motel room carpets are.

“Man, you need to attach that thing to you permanently,” Dean is saying. “You lose your phone more often than anyone I know.”

Cas hunches in on himself, folding his free arm across his chest. “I do seem to have bad luck with it.”

Dean’s voice gentles. “Hey, it’s okay. Sam always loses the card keys to motels no matter what. Why do you think I always hold onto them?”

Cas makes a soft, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “I’m glad you called,” he says after a moment. “I was planning on calling you earlier. I wanted to let you know I was stopping for the night.”

“Oh, awesome. Where are you?”

“Cincinnati. I should be home tomorrow night. If I leave at eight and drive straight through, I can be there for dinner.”

“Don’t push it, Cas, okay? Take some breaks. Don’t wanna get a call about you falling asleep at the wheel and getting into an accident. I mean, hell, I’m looking forward to seeing you, but you’ve still got … what, eleven hours left? Twelve?

Cas sighs. “Eleven, most likely,” he says. Then, a little petulantly, “You drive for longer stretches at a time.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m used to it. You’re not.”

“I drove ten hours today,” Cas points out, and he can feel Dean rolling his eyes across the line.

“Just promise me you’ll drive safe. Okay?”

“Of course, Dean.” He hesitates. They breathe together for a while. “I just really want to get home,” he murmurs.

Dean’s voice is soft and gentle and beautiful, wraps around Cas like an embrace. “I want you home, too,” he says, and then he laughs and adds, “If I have to deal with Sam by myself for another minute, I swear to God—”

“Are you getting enough sleep?” Cas interrupts. “You need to take care of yourself, too.”

“What are you, my mom?” Dean jokes. “Don’t worry about me.”

 _I always worry_ , Cas thinks, but doesn’t say. Out loud, he says, “Anyway. I should, um. I should let you go.” That’s one of the phrases Dean has taught him is appropriate to end a phone call with. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sleep well, Cas.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and then he remembers to add, “You, too.” A pause. “Say hello to Sam for me. And Kevin.”

“’Course.” There’s a sharp intake of breath, like Dean was about to say something and changed his mind. “See you soon.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says, and then he ends the call. He stares down at the screen for a long minute, wondering what Dean was doing when he called, whether he was pressing the phone against his ear with his shoulder as he got medicine for Sam ready or was relaxing on the couch in his robe or was maybe stretched out on his bed, one leg bent, staring up at the ceiling as he waited for Cas to pick up.

Cas puts his phone down carefully on the bedside table, out where it’s entirely visible. He goes back to the closet and pulls out the extra blanket and smooths that down on the bed, absentmindedly picking up the discarded nail polish and placing it next to his phone. He eyes the heap of blankets on the floor and folds them as neatly as he can before placing them on the armchair. He takes a shower and the water pressure is not particularly good. He slips into an old, stretched-out Black Sabbath t-shirt that once belonged to Dean and a pair of sweatpants, and pretends that the shirt still smells like Dean. It doesn’t—it smells faintly of laundry detergent and like his duffel bag, which Cas can only describe as smelling _old_. Still. He pretends.

He sets an alarm for seven a.m., choosing one of the less-startling sounds. He gets into bed and tucks the blankets around his shoulders and then untucks them and places a pillow behind him, another in front of him. He wraps his arms around the latter, presses his back against the too-soft expanse of the former. He pulls the blankets up to his chin and reaches out and turns off the light.

* * *

He wakes up, and it’s pitch-black.

For a few minutes, Cas just blinks out into the expanse of darkness, confused and a little fuzzy-minded. From the bedside table, the radio-alarm clock hybrid says _4:57_. He went to bed six hours ago, give or take. And as the last remnants of sleep dissipate from behind his eyes, Cas realizes he’s wide awake.

He heaves out a long breath and presses his face into a pillow. He yawns into it, feels his jaw pop.

He might as well get up, he supposes.

He turns on the light and goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth and squints at his reflection, at his stubbly chin and the wild mess of hair sticking up in every direction. He should shave, he decides. He despairs at how often he needs to do that. His vessel—his body—has only light, fine hair on its arms and legs, and a neat patch of dark pubic hair, but for some reason his facial hair grows at an alarming pace. He needs to shave at least every other day if he wants to keep it short enough not to itch.

So Cas gets his razor and his shaving cream—Dean had spluttered when he’d first seen it, because it comes in a pink bottle and is, apparently, marketed for women, but Cas likes the smell and the fact that it’s got moisturizer in it. He liberally applies it to his face, inhaling deep the fresh smell of only-slightly-fake strawberries, and gets to it. Dean taught him how to shave, of course. He’d been shaky the first few times he’d tried it, but this body has the muscle memory of nearly two decades of shaving, so he’d quickly picked it up. His hands are a little shaky today, though, so he ends up nicking himself twice: once along his jaw, the other just above his lip. He sticks toilet paper to the cuts and feels ridiculous.

He packs, which doesn’t take long, and reluctantly takes off his pajamas to pull on a pair of fresh boxer-briefs and jeans and a t-shirt and flannel. He checks the time. 5:33. He sits down on the bed and isn’t sure what to do.

He’d planned on staying for the complimentary breakfast—free muffins and bagels and watery orange juice—because he’s running low on cash, but the dining room doesn’t open for another hour. He flicks on the TV and finds nothing but infomercials.

Even if Lebanon weren’t an hour behind Cincinnati, it would be too early to text Dean. Cas doesn’t have many games on his phone, and isn’t particularly interested in any of them at the moment. As an angel, he could have patiently sat on the bed for an hour, unmoving. As a human, he can’t go five minutes without feeling the urge to fidget.

Castiel’s eyes wander the room and land on the nail polish. He tilts his head at it.

One of their hunts—it may have been their first since the trial—was a simple salt n’ burn that required talking to a young woman who worked at a nail salon. He had hovered behind Dean and Sam as they asked the questions while she painted nails, quickly and efficiently. He’d been fascinated by the deft movements of her hands. In theory, Castiel knows how to apply nail polish. It seems simple.

He leans over and picks up the bottle and holds it up to his face. There’s a thin layer of separated oil at the top of the polish, so he shakes the bottle until it’s sufficiently mixed. Then he gets up and moves to the desk and settles down.

The bottle resists being opened, but only for a few seconds before Cas breaks the hold that dried polish had on the cap. He dunks the brush in the pain, swirls it around, and places his left hand flat on the desk.

He starts with his pinky.

The color goes on lighter than it looks in the bottle, which Castiel supposes he should have anticipated. Regardless, it’s a pretty shade, bold but not overwhelming. Like before, his hands are a little shaky, so Cas goes slow and does his best to fill in his nail as neatly as he can. The polish gets onto his cuticle and a little bit sneaks under the tip of his nail, but when Cas holds his hand out at a greater distance, it looks good. He wonders how long it will take to dry. If he knew the density and the chemical makeup, he could give a pretty good guess, but he doesn’t, and he’s not an angel anymore so he can’t just figure those things out.

He moves onto his ring finger and gets a little polish on the stubborn piece of dead skin he’s been nibbling at for days. He wipes it off carefully with his right thumbnail and then wipes his hand on his jeans. He moves on and finishes the rest of his left hand as carefully as he can. The thumb is a little trickier because he has to twist his wrist to get it to lie flat on the table, but he thinks it actually comes out neater than any of his other nails. He leans down and blows on his fingers gently. He stares at them for several seconds. The pinky is starting to dry, but he can see where the brushstrokes are. He picks up his phone with his dry hand and googles _how many layers of nail polish should I put on_.

The first article he clicks says that he needs a base coat, two coats of color, and a top coat. Anxiety tightens his throat. He doesn’t have a base coat. Or a top coat. He doesn’t know what a base coat and a top coat _are_ , though he can give a pretty good guess. The article says that a base coat will help the nail polish last longer, will prevent it from staining his nails.

Castiel frowns down at his fingers. He didn’t know that nail polish could stain his nails. As much as he likes this color, he doesn’t want his nails to turn semi-permanently blue-purple. He googles _does nail polish stain nails_. He finds out, yes, leftover dyes can stain his nails, but they are easy to remove with a cocktail of home remedies, including lemon juice and whitening toothpaste and buffing.

His left hand is almost dry. He puts on another coat the way the first article told him to; three strokes, one on either side and then one quick stroke down the middle.

It takes maybe fifteen minutes before he feels that his nails are in no danger of smudging. He touches them one at a time, as lightly as he can, with the pad of his index finger, and is relieved that none of them feels tacky. He picks up the bottle with his left hand, shakes it, and sets to work on his right hand.

His right hand is much more difficult to do.

Dean often says that Cas must be ambidextrous, because he’s just as good with a blade using his left hand as he is his right hand, but that is, Cas thinks, a load of bullshit. He gets polish on the raised edges of his fingertips where the nail meets the bed for every single finger. He manages to wipe the worst of it off, but there are still small streaks of skin stained lightly purple.

The second pass is easier. He finds a more comfortable way to position his left hand and, instead of drawing the brush slowly across his nails the way he had the first time, he does the three quick strokes the article recommended. Doing it quickly, his hands don’t tremble and he gets smoother lines. Afterwards, when he’s done, he holds his hand up and looks for a long moment at the color, intrigued by how the nail polish seems to paradoxically make his fingers look longer and shorter at the same time. He feels oddly content, like the motion of painting his nails had stilled the anxious thoughts consistently circling his skull.

As he waits for the polish to dry, Cas picks up his phone with his left hand. He’s surprised to see that it’s almost six-thirty—it’s taken him nearly an hour to paint his nails. He wonders if it took so long because he’s bad at it, or because it’s just that difficult.

Cas gets up and rinses off his face, wincing a little as his fingers brush over the small marks where he nicked himself shaving. Then he tosses the polish into his duffel, checks to make sure he has his wallet and car keys and phone, and leaves the motel room behind him. He’s thinking that a blueberry muffin for breakfast is exactly what he needs.

* * *

Cas gets on the road at seven-twenty and drives three and a half hours before realizing that the faint twinge of pain in his stomach is because he’s hungry. He’s still not very good at that, at figuring out when his body needs sustenance. After several billion years of existence and never dealing with hunger, it’s taking some time to get used to.

He pulls off 1-74W into Champaign, Illinois, and finds a gas station. He loves his car—because it’s _his_ , because Dean put so much effort into it, because Dean showed him how to change his own oil and replace spark plugs and jump-start the engine, because the first time he drove into Lebanon with Dean riding shotgun and Kevin and Sam in the backseat, Sam had grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and Dean had slung an arm around him and Kevin even graciously said he sucked less than he thought he would—but its gas mileage is, frankly, abysmal. His tank is running on fumes.

He fills up, wincing at the price of the 93-grade ethanol-free gas Dean recommended he use, and reluctantly takes out his credit card to pay. Charlie had made it for him, so it’s a shade less fraudulent than the cards Dean and Sam use, but it’s still not his money. Charlie funnels funds from a variety of sources into the bank account linked to the card. He thinks she sequesters money away from white supremacist and anti-LGBTQ and anti-abortion groups. He’s never really asked.

Castiel goes inside the station and gathers up a pre-packaged sandwich and a bottle of lemonade and a bag of trail mix, the kind without M&M’s because he hates the way the shards of candy-coating get stuck in his teeth, and goes up to the counter to pay. There’s a dark-haired young woman behind the counter wearing a blue vest and a nametag that says “Hi! My name is ERIKA.” She smiles at him as he gets closer; it’s a kind smile, if not a little tired.

“Good afternoon,” Cas says, a little awkwardly, as he places his groceries on the counter.

“Hey,” the girl says as she starts to ring up his purchases. “Did you find everything ok?”

“Yes,” Cas says. Then he hesitates. She’s wearing a dark blue-purple nail polish similar to his own, more subtle against the darkness of her skin. The question catches in his throat. Is it proper to ask another person what brand of nail polish they’re wearing?

“That’ll be thirteen-sixty-seven,” the girl says, and Cas opens his wallet and fumbles a little with the bills before withdrawing a ten and two ones and then counts out five dimes and three nickels and two pennies. He places the money in her waiting hand. Her eyes wander down to his nails and widen.

Castiel is suddenly very aware that he has never seen a human man wearing nail polish, and that, for all intents and purposes, this woman standing in front of him thinks he is a human man. He takes a deep breath without intending to.

“Dude, I think we’re wearing the same color,” the girl says. She counts up the coins he gave her quickly, eyeing his nails. “Is that Pixie Powder?”

“Um,” Castiel says. “Yes?” Then, more certainly, “Yes, I. Uh. There was a leftover bottle in my motel room. And I—liked the color?”

“It’s a good color for you,” the girl says. She opens the cash register and deposits the bills neatly. “I think—hmm. You’ve got, like. _Really_ blue eyes. Next time you should go for a cerulean or something. A little bit lighter. But the dark color looks so nice with your skin tone.”

“Thank you?” Castiel asks, not really sure if it’s a compliment if she’s remarking on something he can’t change.

The girl hesitates a little as she tears out the receipt from where it’s printing. “Not that it’s any of my business,” she says. “But. I think it’s really cool of you that you’re, you know.” She gestures vaguely. “Gender roles,” she adds, a little lamely, a non sequitur. “They’re really dumb. So it’s really awesome whenever I see a guy wearing nail polish.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says again. He feels a smile bubbling up and he lets it, lets himself smile at her brightly until she’s smiling back.

“Anyway,” the girl says after a moment. “Do you want your receipt?” Cas says yes, please, because Sam told him it’s good to keep track of expenses, and the girl—Erika, Castiel tells himself, because they have had a conversation, they have gotten to know each other in a small, fleeting, insignificant way, and he feels like he has the right to use her name now—places the receipt in his waiting palm and says, a little more quietly, “Sorry if anybody gives you any shit about.” She gestures again. This time, Cas understands that she’s referring to the nail polish. “They’re assholes.” And then, squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing, she adds, “Shit. I mean—ugh. Sorry about my language.”

“That’s alright,” Cas says, very earnestly. “My, um,” he starts, and then he pauses, because he doesn’t know how to describe Dean. “My very good friend is very vulgar at the best of times,” he says, and he thinks that’s somehow not entirely adequate.

“Your friend, huh?” Erika says. There’s a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah, my, uh, my ‘very good friend’ curses up a storm too. She’s a bad influence on me.”

“I’m sure she’s not,” Castiel says, feeling like he’s missing out on something. “You seem very nice.”

“Aw, shucks,” Erika says, and laughs. “Anyway. Have a good afternoon. I’m guessing your ‘very good friend’ is waiting for you.”

Castiel thinks of Dean saying, _I want you home, too_ , and very earnestly, maybe too fond, he says, “Yes, he is.”

* * *

He waves at Eika from behind the wheel as he’s pulling out of the parking lot, and feels warm when, grinning, she waves back. Humans make small connections, he tells himself. Humans make brief friends with strangers they have never met and will never meet again. He feels like he has won a badge of honor, like he’s slowly earning his right to be considered one of them.

He turns on the radio and thinks of home, thinks of Dean, and rolls down the window to feel the wind through his hair.


End file.
